Top Deck 'Tec
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Appearing on a popular TV show was not Sherlock's idea of fun but, in the end, he rather enjoyed himself! This is written for the lovely BC and his mum, from a prompt by johnsarmylady and is dedicated to MrsNoggin, on the occasion of her birthday. Hope you like! The names have been changed, to protect the guilty! It's defo NOT Johnlock, but you can read it that way, if you like.


**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Top Deck 'Tec**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

'Sherlock, is your email account not working?'

'Yes, it is. Why?'

'I've just had a PM on my blog. Someone's been trying to contact you for weeks and getting no reply.'

'Who are they? Is it work?'

'Erm, sort of. I's the BBC. They want you to appear on a programme.'

'Not 'Crimewatch', again. That was so tedious. All that 'Don't have nightmares' rubbish. Never heard such po-faced drivel in my life. Tell them I'm not interested.'

'No, no, Sherlock,' John insisted, trying to get a word in edge-wise. 'It's 'Top Car'.'

'Top what?'

'It's 'Top Car'. We watch it sometimes. Well, I watch it sometimes, you just complain about the noise. They want you to be the Star in a Regular Car, week after next, apparently.'

'And what, exactly, is that?'

'You get to drive a car, very fast, on a race track.'

'Really?' For the first time in this conversation, Sherlock actually looked up from peering down the microscope and turned to look at John. 'What sort of car?'

'It's a Nissan Micra, this season.'

'A Micra? Not even a rally car? Not worth my while!'

'Since when have you been such a petrol head?'

'I am not a 'petrol head', whatever one of those might be, but cars are all about Physics and Chemistry so, naturally, I know about high-performance engines and the Nissan Micra doesn't have one.'

'But that's the whole point, Sherlock. That's why it's called the Star in a Regular Car. You take an ordinary car and let ordinary people drive it and…..'

'So why do they want me to drive it?'

'What?'

'Why do they want me to drive it? Didn't you hear me? If they want someone ordinary, why not invite you?'

John chose to ignore that comment.

'Well for one thing, I don't drive, as you well know. And, for a second, I'm not a star.'

'Neither am I! I'm a Consulting Detective.'

'You are a _famous_ Consulting Detective, Sherlock, the only one in the world. You invented the job, remember? You're an Internet Sensation, thanks to my blog, and people are interested in you.'

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and gave John that look that he always gave when he was reminded that people were curious about him.

'So what would I be expected to do for these _curious_ people?' he asked.

'You would be shown how to drive the car….'

'I know how to drive a car!'

'…on the race track, by their tame racing driver, The Gig, and the you would get to practice a few laps on your own and then you do a timed lap and the time would go on a leader board. So, over the series, the person with the fastest speed over-all would be the winner.'

'So I would be competing against other so-called 'stars'?'

'Yes, ultimately, you would. And they would pay you to do it.'

'I'm not interested in money. If I did it, it would be as a scientific experiment, not because they offered to pay me.'

'Well, that's fine for you but most people are not so fortunate. And cabs, by the way, don't pay for themselves so I for one would be glad of the money.'

Sherlock sat deep in thought for a number of minutes, whilst John resumed writing his blog and checking his PM's. Then, abruptly, the detective declared,

'Tell them I'll do it.'

'Really?' John was surprised. 'Even though it's not a high performance car?'

'Yes. It will be an interesting exercise and it might be of use in a case, some day.'

John gave a secret smile. He had always fancied going to a recording of 'Top Car' and now, for the most unlikely of reasons, he would.

ooOoo

On the day of the shoot, a car arrived at 221 Baker Street to take them to the track in Surrey, where the show was filmed. It arrived at eight in the morning and John and Sherlock, in answer to the driver's ring on their door bell, came down the stairs, out onto the street and got into the car. The driver glanced at Sherlock, a little askance, but said nothing. Once seated in the back of the car, Sherlock turned to John and asked,

'What was that about?'

'What?'

'The look that the driver gave me. He _looked_ at me in an odd way – not at you – just at me.'

'It's the way you're dressed.'

Sherlock looked down at his tailored suit, fitted shirt and handmade shoes, then looked across at John in his blue jeans and t-shirt, then shrugged and shook his head, still not understanding the reason for 'the look'.

'People don't normally turn up dressed like they just stepped off a catwalk. They normally 'dress down',' John explained.

Sherlock simply huffed and settled himself into the comfort of the back seat, for the drive out to Surrey, took out his iPhone and began to tap, frenetically, at the keys.

On arrival at the race track, the two men were introduced to The Gig, a tall man, dressed from head to toe in a green racing driver's suit, complete with gree helmet, gloves and driver's boots. They shook hands all round, then The Gig took Sherlock to see the car.

'You get in the passenger side and I'll take you round the track, explain the dynamics,' The Gig explained.

'I'd like to see the engine first,' Sherlock announced.

It was not possible to see the expression on the other man's face, due to the helmet but his body language showed that he was a little taken aback by this unprecedented request. However, after only a brief pause, The Gig got into the driver's seat, reached under the steering column to release the bonnet and then got out, lifted the bonnet and propped it open.

Sherlock stepped up beside the man, hands clasped behind his back, and began to look at the engine. The Gig began to describe and explain the various components of the car's engine but Sherlock held up a peremptory hand and the man stopped talking and stepped away from the car. He turned his head and glanced across at John, who came over and stood beside him.

'What's he doing that for? No one's ever asked to see the engine before,' The Gig observed.

'Oh, he likes to do things his own way. He likes to know what he's dealing with. If he wants to know anything, he'll ask.'

John and The Gig stood together, chatting amicably about this and that, whilst Sherlock continued his inspection of the engine, then walked around the car, looking at the shape of the wings, the panels and the rear, looking intently at the radiator grill, the wheel arches and the wheels themselves, then lay down on the ground and looked at the underneath of the chassis, at the transmission and the exhaust system. Eventually, he stood up, dusted himself down and turned to look at the racing driver.

'I think he's ready for you now,' John explained.

The Gig walked back to the car and got into the driver's seat, strapping himself in, using the full rally harness, specially fitted to this particular car. Sherlock opened the passenger door and looked at the helmet, sitting on the passenger seat.

'You need to put that on,' The Gig advised him.

Sherlock picked it up and looked at it then looked across at John, who just shrugged and pursed his lips in a gesture which said 'Just do it, Sherlock'. The detective heaved a deep sigh and, reluctantly, placed the white helmet over his dark curls and fastened the chin strap. He then slid into the passenger seat and buckled himself into the harness.

John stood on the side-lines and watched as The Gig drove around the race track at a fairly moderate speed and returned to the starting line. After a brief pause, the car set off again, this time, with a squeal of tyres and a loud roaring of the engine. On this occasion, the car completed the course in about half the time of the first lap – in just under a minute and a half, in fact. John looked on, in admiration, as the car shaved inches off each corner, sped along the straight-ish sections, negotiated the chicane and the final bend and flashed across the finishing line. The vehicle then stopped, both men got out, Sherlock got into the driver's seat, exchanged a few brief words with his 'instructor', then drove the car in a slow arc, back to the starting line.

The Gig walked over to where John waited, turned to stand alongside him and folded his arms, looking across at the blue car, sitting on the start line.

'Interesting bloke, your mate,' he observed.

'Yes,' John agreed.

The racing driver offered no further enlightenment so they both stood in silence and waited for the car to move.

When it did, it took off with a squeal of tyres and a roar of the engine almost identical to that of the previous run. John watched as his friend threw the vehicle around the bends in an almost perfect recreation of the racing driver's lap. There were small deviations in the line taken but one would have needed a trained eye to spot them. As the Micra hurtled around the course, at breakneck speed, The Gig swore, eloquently, under his breath and unfolded his arms, placing his hands on top of his helmet, in astonishment. As the car flashed past the finishing line, the entire crew burst into a spontaneous round of applause. The car slowed, turned in a tight circle and cruised back to the start line.

John and the other man jogged over to the driver's window.

'Bloody hell! Are you sure you've never driven this track before?' exclaimed The Gig.

'Quite sure,' Sherlock replied. 'I've never driven on any kind of race track before.'

'Well, maybe you should consider a change of profession, mate, because that was bloody amazing,' the driver replied.

'What was my time?' Sherlock asked, without showing the least amount of emotion.

Everyone turned to the man responsible for timing.

'That was 1 min 33 secs,' the man declared, with undisguised admiration.

Sherlock pulled a face.

'That much?' he huffed.

'Fasted lap this series!' the man replied, with a huge grin.

'Let's go again,' Sherlock replied.

Everyone looked at John, who just smiled and shrugged. They all returned to their places and waited for Sherlock to set off. He was just sitting in the car, with his eyes closed and his hands steepled under his chin. After a minute or so, he placed one hand on the steering wheel, primed the engine, and took off again.

This time, his line was perfect, his pacing positively sublime. On the corners, the balance and control were exquisite and on the straighter sections, the acceleration and deceleration timed to the height of mathematical exactitude. As the blue car flashed across the finish line, the cheer from the crew went up once more. Sherlock executed a flashy handbrake turn and drove back to the start, where he switched off the engine and stepped out of the car, removing his helmet as he did so and placing it on the driver's seat. On this occasion, he was smiling, rather smugly.

'Have you finished? Don't you want to go again?' John asked, having jogged over to greet him.

'One cannot improve on perfection, John. That was the maximum speed that particular vehicle is capable of, on this track, in these conditions, on this day,' Sherlock stated, with an air of finality.

The man with the clip board was approaching The Gig who, standing silently at a distance from Sherlock and John, turned to look at the man, as he muttered,

'1 min 28 seconds, Gig. Same time as you!'

ooOoo

'Why can't we leave now?' Sherlock asked.

He and John had been stuck in the Green Room for over an hour and he was bored.

'Because you have to do the interview,' John explained.

'Interview? No one said anything about an interview. Why do I have to give an interview?' Sherlock whinged.

'It's just what you have to do, Sherlock. You have an interview with the main presenter, Jerry Carlson, and then then he tells you your time.'

'I already know my time. It was 1 min 28 seconds.'

'Yes, well, don't let them know that you know because they won't be pleased.'

'Why not?'

'Because they want to see your reaction, on camera – surprise, disappointment, disbelief - whatever. It's television.'

'But I won't be any of those things. I did what I had to do and I got the result I expected. Why would I be surprised? That's just...silly.'

The door opened and the familiar figure of Jerry Carlson strode in. Well, familiar to John, at least. Sherlock just stared at him, blankly. The man extended a hand, which Sherlock looked at but did not reach to shake. It was John who grasped the proffered hand and introduced himself and his companion to the man most famous for being politically incorrect, with a vengeance.

Carlson prattled on for a while, about what an honour it was to have Sherlock on the show and how they would be starting the recording really soon and Sherlock's interview would be in about half an hour and would last about twenty minutes, though only about five minutes would air. Having introduced himself and delivered his message, the man departed, leaving Sherlock looking even more annoyed that before.

'What on earth am I supposed to talk about to_ him_ for twenty minutes?' he grumbled.

'Oh, he'll do most of the talking. He's no Graham Norton. And, at some point - be warned, Sherlock – he will say something quite insulting. It's practically written into his contract to be rude to his guest. Just don't rise to it, alright? Most of it will be edited out anyway, so it won't be broadcast, but if he rattles you, it will show up, even in the edit.'

John's words of warning struck a chord with Sherlock.

'Oh, I remember who he is, now. We watched this once before, when he had that actor on and insulted the man's mother.'

John nodded. That had been a particularly bad example of the host presenter's lack of basic good manners. And, although the insult was not broadcast, the guest had fluffed his next answer – the makes and models of his first two cars – because he had been thrown by the crass comment. The comment in question was out on Twitter, the day after the show aired, demonstrating the power of social networking.

Before the two men could discuss the matter further, the door opened and a young woman – the assistant stage manager – beckoned them to leave the room and follow her. John was directed to stand behind the camera, near to the stage, which he did, whilst Sherlock was quickly dusted with powder, to take the shine off his skin, and miked up, then asked to wait for the preceding item to end and his introduction to begin. Then, at a signal from the assistant director, he strode forward, though a gap in the standing audience, and onto the stage, in the full glare of the stage lights. He shook hands with his host and was invited to sit on a car seat, positioned on the stage, at a right angle to Mr Carlson, so that both their faces could be seen by the camera.

John stood in the relative obscurity of the camera rig, his arms folded across his chest and his fingers, unconsciously, crossed, as the interview began. It started well. Carlson introduced Sherlock as the 'only Consulting Detective in the world' and asked him to explain a little about his methods. He gave a fairly succinct description of The Science of Deduction and then offered to deduce someone – Mr Carlson, perhaps. The host deflected that thrust quite well and volunteered one of the other presenters – Jim Day – to be Sherlock's victim. Mr Day was rather accustomed to being the butt of his co-host's jokes so he was quite willing to let Sherlock take a pop at him. And he, for his part, was quite kind to the other man and only deduced some fairly innocuous trivia, which nevertheless went down well with the local crowd.

They then went on to talk about some of Sherlock's more high profile cases, ones that the audience would have read about in the papers, followed by some rather predictable 'toff-bashing', with reference to Sherlock's family history and private education. The guest seemed to be fielding the host's jibes quite deftly and, although not exactly enjoying himself, he looked to be coping with the onslaught. John dared to relax a little.

But then it came.

'Mr Holmes, I suppose the thing you are most famous for is faking your own death and then coming back from the dead, a few months ago.'

Sherlock's face went guardedly blank but John saw a slight twitch in his right cheek which betrayed his true feelings.

'I'm sure we all remember the story, don't we, people? You were outed as a fraud, in the papers, and then you jumped of the roof of St Bart's Hospital.' Carlson seemed positively gleeful and utterly oblivious to the discomfort he was causing his guest.

'In fact, ladies and gentlemen, we can go one better than remembering. One of our researchers found this little clip, on YouTube, taken on somebody's mobile phone, who just happened to be in the area at the time.'

Without further ado, the presenter directed everyone's attention to the large screens, dotted around the aircraft hangar, in which the programme was always recorded. John felt his heart begin to hammer loudly, in his ears, and his body went cold and uncomfortably damp, as the capillary blood vessels in his skin contracted. He watched, in horror, but unable to look away, the grainy image of Sherlock standing on the roof of the old hospital, then extending his arms out to the side before leaping forward, out into the void.

The only person in the room not watching the screens was Sherlock himself. As soon as the video began to play, he had looked past the camera, at John. He saw his friend freeze and the colour drain from his cheeks and, whilst everyone else's attention was fixed on the drama playing out in pale, watery colours, on the monitors, Sherlock was on his feet, stepping over the industrial design coffee table and striding towards the camera rig. He put his hands on John's shoulders and pulled him into his chest, just as the doctor's knees began to sag. Wrapping his arms around his friend, Sherlock spoke reassuringly into his ear,

'It's OK, John, it's over. I'm here and I'm alright.'

John clutched at the lapels of the detective's jacket and took the weight back onto his legs but Sherlock could feel him trembling violently, in shock. He looked up and caught the eye of the assistant stage manager, who was immobilised, staring, completely distracted by the drama playing out in front of her.

'He needs to sit down!' Sherlock hissed, and his tone galvanised the young woman into action.

She turned and grabbed the director's chair, swung it round and placed it on the floor, right behind John. Sherlock eased his friend down into the seat and knelt on the floor, in front of him, one hand still on his shoulder and the other grasping his forearm, to keep him from tipping out of the chair.

'Some water, quickly!' he barked, and someone thrust a plastic bottle towards him, which he then put into John's hand and moved towards his lips, so that he would drink.

'I'm alright, now,' John gasped but the colour had still not returned to his cheeks, so Sherlock was unimpressed with his diagnosis. A man suddenly appeared at John's side. He was dressed in some sort of uniform, comprising of a green and yellow boiler suit.

'I'm the duty paramedic. Can I help him?' the man asked.

'I would hope you could,' was Sherlock's terse reply. 'He's had a shock. That video – he saw the live show and, at the time, he thought it was real.'

A second paramedic was now in attendance so Sherlock stood up, to allow them better access to the patient. Looking round, he saw the video had ended, the screens were blank and the cameras were no longer filming. He looked towards the stage and saw his host standing, looking bemused. The man moved towards him but he fixed him with an icy glare and turned back to see what was happening to John.

The director then took control of the situation and ordered the crew to move onto the next item, which took the audience, the presenters and all the technicians to another part of the hangar, leaving John and Sherlock alone with the paramedics and the ASM.

ooOoo

Four days later, the two friends sat in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, awaiting the air time of Top Car, John rather more eagerly than Sherlock.

'I don't understand why you need to watch it. You were there. You know what happened,' he muttered.

'Which is exactly why I want to watch it again. In fact, I think I might record it on the digibox and keep it forever,' John replied, rubbing his hands with relish.

Sherlock just buried his nose in his book and tried to read. He didn't need a digibox. He could see the whole thing in his mind's eye, exactly as it unfolded. He didn't regret what had happened. However, he did despise the social media frenzy that had seen the incident trending world-wide on Twitter. He was, after all, a very private man. If only the obnoxious git had not been so stupid as to come to talk them!

ooOoo

Back in the Green Room, the paramedics were satisfied that their patient was sufficiently recovered from his ordeal for them to leave him in the care of his glowering friend.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what came over me. I just wasn't expecting that. It took me by surprise.'

'John, please, do not apologise. It is not necessary. When can we leave this place?'

'I don't think they will let us leave just yet. They'll want to finish the interview. They haven't shown your lap yet or announced you time.'

'They don't need me to be there, to do that.'

'It will look odd, if you're not.'

As if in response to John's observation, the door opened and the obnoxious host walked in, closely followed by an anxious-looking Assistant Director.

'Feeling better, are we?' the big man guffawed, with a patent lack of concern for John's well-being. 'If so, perhaps we could finish the business? We do have a schedule, you know!'

Sherlock rose from his seat and gave the man a tight smile.

'Indeed, Mr Carlson, we can, most certainly, finish the business, but first, I have a schedule of my own to complete.'

Without further preamble, he stepped forward, grasped the presenter by his upper arms and head-butted him, neatly, on the bridge of his nose. There was a moment of suspended animation, during which Mr Carlson wore an expression of frozen surprise. Then, as movement returned to the room, Sherlock stepped back, the AD leapt forward and the presenter sat down, heavily, on the floor. John looked from his friend to the stricken host and back to his friend, with a half-smile playing on his lips.

The consulting detective smoothed down his jacket, smiled at the AD and said,

'Shall we continue?' then strode, elegantly, from the room.

ooOoo

The familiar theme music of 'Top Car' rang out in the sitting room of 221B and John leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his hands and licking his lips in anticipation. Sherlock's part of the programme was scheduled for about half way through the show, so John immersed himself in the earlier content – a light-hearted look at how many different ways one could employ to destroy a towed caravan.

Sherlock flicked clandestine glances at the screen, from behind the barricade of his book, and pursed his lips at the inane drivel which marketed itself as entertainment. At last, his item was announced. With a resigned sigh, he closed his book, placed it on the side table, steepled his fingers and stared at the TV screen.

The edited version of his interview showed a wide angle shot of himself and the presenter, with the blank monitor screen between them. Carlson babbled on, in an exaggeratedly sycophantic manner and Sherlock gave his calm, considered responses. So far, so normal. Suddenly, the camera angle changed. Mr C was no longer in shot but came as a disembodied, rather nasal, voice, introducing the actual timed lap that his guest had completed earlier in the day. As the car shot across the finishing line, the audience applauded and whooped loudly, and the screen showed Sherlock, in close up.

'Would you like to know your time?' the presenter's voice asked, sounding like a man with a head cold. Sherlock simply nodded.

'One minute and…..' pause for dramatic effect, 'twenty…..' ooh's and ah's from the audience, 'EIGHT seconds!'

The room erupted with loud shouts, cheers, clapping and stamping. A hand was shown, placing the time strip at the top of the leader board then the image changed to a rear view of the man reaching across to shake hands with his guest. Sherlock's facial expression remained passive and bland. The rest of the programme then followed, with the main host taking centre stage and shown in full-face.

As the closing credits scrolled up the screen, Sherlock furrowed his brow.

'They didn't even show it!' he remarked.

'No, but I know it was there,' John replied, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, sitting back in his chair and picturing the obnoxious host's swollen, red proboscis and puffy eyes. He would not be appearing in public without sunglasses for a week or two, he mused, with a happy smile.

ooOoo


End file.
